


covered in the colors (pull apart at the seams)

by stonesnuggler



Series: colors [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Getting Together, Magical Realism, Multi, Polyamory, Sibling Incest, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-07-08
Packaged: 2018-11-22 00:51:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11369139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonesnuggler/pseuds/stonesnuggler
Summary: Dylan doesn’t mean for his favorite color to be pink.It earns him a fair share of snickers and jeers as a kid --pink is a girl color, Dylanthey would say -- but pink was safe, and warm, and home.Pink was the clouds as summer days turned to summer nights. It was the sticky-sweet of cotton candy in the stands at hockey games. The burn of the sun as they packed up the car, en route to tournaments in the wee hours of the morning.Most importantly, pink was the glow around Ryan, and Ryan is his favorite.





	covered in the colors (pull apart at the seams)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [helveticaneue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/helveticaneue/gifts).



> happy polyhockey, h!! once upon a time, i ran this AU idea by you via DM and you seemed interested, so I ran with it. I hope you love it <3
> 
> a huge huge HUGE thank you to JT for the beta and for dealing with me and my constant need to chatfic out little ideas. this fic would not be what it is today without you and i owe you the world. another thank you to G, J, and both of my L's for the cheerleading and encouragement.
> 
> Edit 2/10/18: Added a 'read with me' google doc to the end notes!

Dylan doesn’t mean for his favorite color to be pink.

It earns him a fair share of snickers and jeers as a kid -- _pink is a girl color, Dylan_ they would say -- but pink was safe, and warm, and home.

Pink was the clouds as summer days turned to summer nights. It was the sticky-sweet of cotton candy in the stands at hockey games. The burn of the sun as they packed up the car, en route to tournaments in the wee hours of the morning.

Most importantly, pink was the glow around Ryan, and Ryan is his favorite.  


**//**

 

He’s six when he first sees the colors.

It’s a rim of dark red around his mom, faint but glowing as she yells at Ryan to _pick up your shoes for the last time, Ryan Edward._ He doesn’t really think about it, thinks it to be a trick of the light, and makes sure his own shoes are out of the way.

Later, when he and Ryan are playing three-bar in the backyard, Dylan says, “mommy turned red earlier.”

“Yeah,” Ryan agrees, casually, “I think it was the screaming.”

Dylan blinks, hesitates in taking his shot. “No, like, really red. Like someone drew a red line around her.” He takes his shot and the ball clangs weakly against the left post before flying somewhere else in the yard.

He doesn’t know how long he’s standing there waiting for Ryan to take his shot before he looks, but when he does, there’s a yellow glow around him, a smile on his face.

“Mom!” Ryan calls, dropping his stick and grabbing Dylan’s arm. “Dylan can see it!”

 

/

 

From then, it’s a whirlwind of Dylan getting things explained to him. Yes, the colors he’s seeing are what people are feeling. No, this doesn’t mean he’s a freak. Yes, Ryan has it, too. No, this won’t affect hockey.

Ryan is the best at explaining things, he finds out.

A couple of weeks later, they’re in the rec room, simulation video on the tv as they work on color comprehension. There’s a couple on the screen, and the prompt provided that they’re on a first date. Ryan has seen this one a couple of times, is already in reaching distance of his yellow, pink, and orange crayons, but this is Dylan’s first time seeing this particular sim, and--

“This isn’t making any _sense_ ,” Dylan whines, resting his head on folded arms. There are crayons scattered on the table in varying shades, some of them broken, many without wrappers.

“What isn’t?” Ryan asks, picking up a crayon of his own.

“There’s too many colors,” Dylan mumbles into his arm, bringing his face up. “It’s pink _and_ yellow and _then_ there’s random orange?”

Ryan sighs, unsure of how to fix this, and Dylan throws the crayon that was in his hand back on the table. It hits the table with the familiar ‘ _thwack’_ and Ryan knows that it’s no longer in one piece.

Then Ryan gets an idea.

He gets up from the table and crosses over to the storage bins, grabbing some masking tape before returning to Dylan’s side.

Dylan’s eyebrows furrow as Ryan puts the tape on the table. “What are you--”

“Shhh,” Ryan says. “You’ll see.”

He picks up one of the more muted yellows, a warmer pink, a dull orange, and one of the deeper purples and tapes them together before handing it to Dylan.

“There,” Ryan says. “You can still use the single colors, or you can mix them, like how they show up.”

Dylan Reads sky blue and yellow, and Ryan remembers how much he loves sunny days.  
  


**//**

  


On his fifth birthday, Connor wakes up screaming.

There’s a sound -- a shrill, piercing sound that makes the hair the back of his neck stand up, almost like during the holiday concert last week when his teacher put the microphone too close to the speaker. On top of that, a bright white light despite his closed eyes and all of the lights in his room being turned off. He doesn’t know where it’s coming from, but he knows he wants it to stop.

Pressing his hands to his ears helps a little, but it’s still too loud, too much.

“ _Cammy,”_ Connor cries, but Cam woke up almost instantly, already at his brother’s side. There are tears rolling hot and fast down his cheeks, and Cam pushes them away with the sleeve of his pyjamas. “Too _loud._ ”

“I’m gonna go get mommy,” Cam says, but he doesn’t have to go very far. Before he can even touch the door handle, their mom is in the room and at Connor’s side.

Connor knows his mom is whispering when she says his name, if only because he can barely feel the words against her chest where she hugs him close, but it’s still too loud.

“It’s too bright,” Connor sniffs, his eyes shut and hands over his ears. “Too bright and too loud.”

His mom tenses a little next to him, sends Cam to go get their dad.

“It’s the noise machine,” Connor sniffles, burrowing closer into his mom. “I think Cammy turned it up.”

His mom leans over to where the noise machine is plugged in, fiddles with a few buttons.

“Honey, it’s not even on.”

  
/  


The next two hours are a whirlwind of finding the closest emergency Gift specialist that’s open, getting there, and convincing Connor that everything was going to be fine.

It’s almost four in the morning by the time they get in to see someone, but the consultation is over in less than half an hour.

“So we know Cameron’s Gift is Synesthesia, is that correct?” the specialist -- Dr. Michaelson -- asks Connor’s parents.

His mom nods, reaches for Connor’s hand where he’s curled into his dad’s lap. “Same as mine.”

“That’s common,” Dr. Michaelson says, looking at his chart for a quick second. “Connor is… well, he’s certainly unique.”

Connor picks his head up from his dad’s chest, squints a little at the doctor through tired eyes.

“Is that bad?” he asks, voice wobbling as he shut his eyes again. Everything is still too bright.

Dr. Michaelson smiles, sets his chart down. “No, Connor, not at all. You’ve got what we call a Hybrid Gift.”

He doesn’t even wait for the questions from the McDavids before he continues.

“Connor’s Gift is similar to the familial Gift of Synesthesia, except instead of seeing pigmented colors when he hears certain sounds, he feels the colors as emotions.” He hands Connor’s mom a piece of paper with an email address and phone number scribbled on it.

“This is the information for a good friend of mine with a very similar gift to Connor’s. She’d be more than willing to answer any questions you have while he adjusts.”

The four of them are on their way home soon after, Connor equipped with noise cancelling headphones that are a bit too big, but do the trick nonetheless.

  
//

 

Dylan Strome is ten the first time he meets Connor McDavid.

It’s one of the local hockey tournaments for mites, so Dylan is used to seeing casual, nervous glows of teal around his teammates or other kids, but he’s not used to the sparkling gold of determination being attached to a ten year-old.

The gold is still there when Dylan faces off against him in their first game of the round robin tournament. McDavid wins it, but not without a little fight from Dylan.

He understands the gold, can feel the motivation of it in his chest, pushing him forward as he races after the puck, races after McDavid. Dylan isn’t the most steady on his skates, but rumor has it that Connor already has a _skating coach_ , _mom, I want a skating coach, too._

Dylan’s team wins the game -- not for lack of trying by McDavid’s team -- but the gold is still rimmed around Connor in the handshake line.

“Good game,” Connor says, offers a smile.

“Nice goal,” Dylan says, and he means it.

The edges of Connor’s glow go a bit pink, and so do the tips of Dylan’s ears.

 

//

 

On Ryan’s sixteenth birthday, he gets a new-to-him car and permission to take Dylan and Matty out to ice cream.

It’s an old beat up Ford pick-up, the definition of a Piece of Shit, but it’s big enough for the three brothers to fit comfortably, not to mention room for hockey gear.

“This is so _cool,_ ” Dylan says for what feels like the tenth time in half as many minutes that they’ve been in the car, bouncing in the front seat.

“I want cookies and cream!” Matty shouts from the back.

Everyone is yellow, bright and shining like the summer sun, and Ryan can feel the warmth of it blossoming in his chest.

They pull into their usual summer ice cream spot, the truck barely in park before Matty all but climbs over Dylan in the passenger seat to get out.

“Jesus, Beans, watch it!” Dylan crows, pinching his younger brother in the side, smiling as he dissolves into a fit of giggles.

Ryan rolls his eyes as he unbuckles his seatbelt, gets out, and heads over to the passenger side. Matty damn near falls out of the car, leaving a giggling Dylan still buckled, tears forming in his eyes.

“Come on, Pickle. Let’s go,” Ryan prompts, and Dylan beams before unbuckling and hopping down from the cab.

Matty gets his cookies and cream, Dylan his strawberry, and Ryan gets himself birthday cake. You only turn 16 once, after all.

Ryan opens up the drop door to the bed of the truck and sits down, knowing Matty and Dylan will follow. Before the thought is even finished, Matty has climbed up on his left and Dylan is nestled close on his right.

They sit there in an easy silence for a few moments, watching the sky turn orange as they enjoy their ice cream, but the silence is short-lived.

“Does this mean you’re driving me to practice now instead of momma?” Matty says through a glob of ice cream. “Because we’re always too early when she drives.”

“She does that on purpose,” Dylan says and Ryan can almost feel the eyeroll.

Matty huffs, the smallest pout on his face as his glow turns the faintest dark blue. “It’d be cooler if Ry drove me though.”

“You think you’re too cool for mom then, eh?” Ryan taunts, nudging Matty with his shoulder. Matty nudges back a little harder than necessary. “Fine, see if I ever buy you ice cream again.”

“You guys are jerks,” says Matty, hopping down to toss his his empty dish in the trash across the parking lot.

“Be careful!” Dylan and Ryan say simultaneously, earning a glare from Matty.

Dylan’s crunching on his cone by the time Ryan scrapes the last sprinkles out of the bottom of his dish. He’s about to turn and tell Dylan he’s being annoying, to maybe chew quieter, Dylan, jeez --

He’s got ice cream on his cheek, Ryan notices. It’s bright, artificial pink, and Ryan has no idea how it got there. Before he realizes what he’s doing, Ryan’s licking his thumb and smudging the pink off of Dylan’s cheek.

Dylan’s looking at him now, eyes a little wide and Ryan can’t Read him -- his colors or his expression, for that matter.

“Uh…”

“There was--” Ryan tries, and Dylan raises and eyebrow, the smallest smirk on his face. “I mean, uh, you had some ice cream on your face.”

“Thanks,” says Dylan, smirk still there as he takes another bite out of his cone.

“Why are you so pink?” Matty says, hopping back up onto the door of the bed and poking Ryan’s cheek.

He mumbles something about the sun -- even though he knows that’s not what Matty meant -- hops down to go throw out his own empty dish. Matty drops it.

 

//

 

He couldn't even get a point. Ryan drove to London all the way from Toronto -- on his off day where he's supposed to be relaxing -- to come watch Dylan's game where he couldn't even put up one single mother fucking point.

He knows it's not supposed to get to him, but god. Sixteen games, snapped just like that, by stupid fucking Mitch Marner and his stupid fucking London Knights.

Disappointment is thick in the air after they make it to Ryan’s hotel room. Dylan can feel it hanging on his shoulders, weighing him down and making it hard for him to breathe.

He’s already shrugged off his jacket and sat down at the foot of the bed, head in his hands by the time Ryan sits down next to him. He hasn’t even bothered to take off his blocker tape where it’s still wrapped snuggly around his wrist, a little too tight, the tungsten wires in it biting into his skin from wearing it too long.

He doesn’t want to see the dark turquoise of disappointment glowing around Ryan’s edges. Not yet.

“Dyl,” Ryan says, just a whisper, but Dylan still flinches away at the sound. “Hey. You’re okay.”

Dylan opens his mouth to say no, he’s _not_ okay, it’s _not_ okay, god he’s supposed to be a difference maker on this team and--

Ryan says, “listen to me before you go all self-deprecating, maybe.”

There’s a seriousness in his tone that Dylan hasn’t heard very often, one that sends a shiver down his whole spine. So, he listens.

“Listen, fuck the Knights, okay?” Ryan starts, and yeah, Dylan can agree with that. “Look back at what you did during that streak, Pickle. You were amazing.”

“It wasn’t enough to--”

“It _was_ enough,” interrupts Ryan, “and you can’t honestly believe that it wasn’t.”

Dylan huffs, sure that he’s rolling his eyes hard enough for Ryan to know. “Obviously not.”

“For fucks sake, Dylan.” Ryan’s irritated now, Dylan knows it, doesn’t need to Read him to know he’d be lined with lime-green annoyance. Even the thought sets Dylan’s teeth on edge.

He pushes himself off the bed, runs his fingers through tangled curls harshly as he starts walking around the room, just for something to do.

“It’s always ‘for fucks sake, Dylan’, right?” Dylan spits. Ryan looks a little taken aback, but he stays where he’s seated at the foot of the bed. “You’re all ‘don’t be so hard on yourself’ and ‘you did great’, but you’re not the ones out there busting your ass and getting nothing to show for it.”

“Take off the tape,” Ryan says, calm, a little icy.

Dylan wants to scream, but he takes a deep breath instead. “Fuck you.”

“Take it off,” Ryan says again, fiddles with the buttons on his shirtsleeves. He’s not looking at Dylan, looking away pointedly as a matter of fact, and Dylan hates it. “Please.”

“Why, so you can Read me and try and figure out how to fix a mess that’s not yours?” Dylan says, suddenly finding himself very interested in the ugly muted fall colors of the patterned carpet as he paces the space between the bed and the window.

“No, so you can stop acting like the fucking world is ending because of one bad game,” Ryan states plainly, finally looking up at Dylan, eyebrows furrowed in frustration. “You know how you get when you have blockers on for too long.”

“God, you think you know everything, don’t you?” Dylan knows he’s right, knows that he gets irritable but right now, after hitting two posts and a minus-4, it’s a welcome feeling. There’s anger bubbling in his chest, deep enough that he can feel the ache in his bones, in his game bruises, in the base of his spine. “Mister fucking-know-it-all.”

“Stop,” Ryan says, looks away for a quick second, then down at his hands.

Dylan’s not backing down, though. “I’m so fucking sick of this and you seriously don’t get it.”

“Because you’re not _letting_ me get it,” counters Ryan, sharp and a little cold. He runs a frustrated hand through his hair before standing suddenly, and then he’s right in front of Dylan, stopping him in his tracks. They’re face to face, and Dylan can see the concern in Ryan’s eyes. He hates it. “You’re refusing to talk about it, which is fine. Like, I get it, but you’ve gotta let me in, Dyl.”

Dylan looks down, picks at a hangnail as he sighs. It’s a quick, watery thing that does next to nothing in the ways of loosening the tightness in his chest. There are hot, frustrated tears welling up in his eyes, blurring Ryan’s frame.

“I just-- I don’t know what’s going on,” he says, and it’s not a lie. He sniffs once, looks up and away from Ryan as he tries to blink the blurriness away.

It’s easy and comfortable when Ryan puts his hand on Dylan’s shoulder, squeezing before he trails his hand down to where his blocker tape is still wrapped around his wrist. Ryan taps at it, a silent question, and Dylan brings a shaky hand up to pick at the corner of the tape. He’s fumbling as he tries to bring the edge up, the tremor of his hands too much to get a solid grip.

Ryan sees this, tugs him over by the sleeve so he can sit down at the foot of the bed.

“Let me,” Ryan says, pushing Dylan’s hand away and taking the blocker-wrapped wrist in his own hand. Dylan loosely wraps his fingers around Ryan’s wrist as he picks at the tape before finally getting the edge up enough to unwrap it from Dylan’s skin.

It hurts, Dylan notices. Not just the adhesive, but the way the room brightens as soon as the tape gets peeled back, and he finds himself shutting his eyes almost instantly.

“Okay?” Ryan asks, pausing with one more wrap left. Dylan nods, a couple tears falling as he does, tightening the grip on Ryan’s wrist. He’s not sure who’s pulse he’s feeling, but the quick thrum of it under their skin centers him, even if just a little.

“You were right,” he admits after Ryan gets the last of the tape off, eyes still shut. There’s the sticky crunch of the tape getting crumpled, then rustling as the tape ball falls into the liner of the trash can. “Wore it for too long.”

“I know,” says Ryan -- not boastful, just observational -- and then he’s tugging Dylan into his side. There’s barely any hesitation before Dylan wraps his arms around Ryan’s waist, burying his face in his neck. One of Ryan’s hands comes up, pets at Dylan’s curls as he breathes, the ache in his chest just starting to fade. Ryan’s cologne reminds him of home -- warm, and comforting, and bright.

Slowly, Dylan opens his eyes and lets his them adjust to the light, to the colors surrounding Ryan. The most prominent is the deep purple of concern that almost bleeds onto his skin, but it’s edged with bits of sky blue -- relief, Dylan places.

Closest to his body, though, is the familiar warm, dark pink -- faint, but deepening every couple of seconds.

 

Dylan’s mouth goes a little dry, and for the millionth time since he grew into his Gift, he wishes he could see his own colors. He must be quite a picture to Ryan right now.

“Gotta get out of your suit, Pickle,” Ryan whispers, pressing the words into Dylan’s hair with a quick kiss. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, just comforting and reassuring, but it makes Dylan’s chest ache in a way he can’t explain.

The thought fogs his head as he reaches at the buttons of his shirt, getting them undone and shrugging out of it as Ryan gets up and goes over to his bag. He searches for a second or three before finding what he was looking for -- a nearly-threadbare Niagara shirt that he plops in Dylan’s lap.

He doesn’t waste any time pulling the shirt over his head while Ryan keeps looking through his bag. He’s about to ask Ryan what he’s looking for when a pair of sweatpants lands on the bed next to him. They’re Islanders blue, albeit a little faded, and Dylan recognizes them instantly – they may or may not find their way into Dylan’s laundry at home.

“These don’t even fit you,” Dylan mumbles, resting his ankle on his knee as he pulls off his shoes.

Ryan shrugs, starts undoing his own belt so he can change into sweatpants of his own.

“You always end up with them anyway,” he explains, stepping out of his jeans. Dylan looks away. “Figured I’d bring ‘em along for you."

He can feel his cheeks coloring as he stands to undo his belt, stepping out of his dress pants and pulling the sweats on quickly. He can only imagine what he’s Reading as to Ryan – he’d bet his monthly stipend the red on his cheeks is also in his glow.

The thought isn’t a foreign one, hasn’t been since he was fifteen and he once caught the faint deep red glow around Ryan after he got out of the shower. Ryan had been flushed down to his chest, a dusting of pink at the highest point of his cheeks, and Dylan knew it wasn’t from water temperature.

(It was an accident the first time, the whole getting off thinking about Ryan thing. He was showering in his and Ryan’s bathroom at home, had just reached for his shower gel to speed things along. He was caught up in the slick slide, not realizing that the soap he grabbed was Ryan’s fancy shit instead of his Old Spice. By the time he realized, his hand was already on his dick. The prospect of wasting his brother’s expensive soap was a little more pressing than the fact of what he was doing with said soap, so he used it anyway.

Bad idea.

As he worked his hand over himself, the scent of the soap made it easy for him to relate it to Ryan, which in turn made him ponder if Ryan had ever been in the same situation. Eager to get off in a hurry, grabbing Dylan’s soap instead, the scent of it hanging in the steam as he gets himself off, sloppy and slick.

Dylan’s never come so hard in his life.)

Right now, though, he really just wants to crawl into Ryan’s lap, feel his chest rise and fall, and listen to the easy _th-thump th-thump th-thump_ of his heart. That thought is a new one.

By the time Dylan’s surfaced from his reverie, Ryan has already turned down the bed covers and crawled in. He’s still Reading purple, the edges of worry still on his frame, but it’s mostly faded away and been replaced by the cotton candy swirls of pink and blue.

Not just any pink. Ryan’s pink. The warm, yellow toned pink Dylan once imagined he’d see at the end of the aisle one day. The space next to him is open -- an obvious invitation that Dylan isn’t going to turn down -- so he slides under the cool sheets, nestles maybe a little closer than he needs to be. Ryan doesn’t shy away, does the exact opposite actually, and shifts closer.

“C’mere,” he says, just barely above a whisper, tugs on the sleeve of Dylan’s shirt and Dylan goes, wrapping his arm around Ryan’s waist. “You’re too grey.”

“Stop Reading me,” Dylan says, but he doesn’t mean it and Ryan knows this. He lets his eyes slide shut, focusing on Ryan’s heartbeat, the warmth of his skin under the soft fabric of his t-shirt.

Ryan sniffs a little bit of a laugh, brings an arm around Dylan and tugs him closer, far enough where his face is in the crook of Ryan’s neck. He smells warm, just a hint of his cologne still clinging to his skin, and Dylan wants to stay right here forever.

Another new thought. Tonight seems to be bringing a lot of those.

It’s quiet for a minute or maybe ten before Ryan scratches at Dylan’s hair and says, “are you asleep?”

Dylan shakes his head, part answer, another part pushing into the feel of Ryan’s nails against his scalp.

“Thought you might’ve been dreaming,” Ryan says, taking a deep breath. “You, uh-- You look like a sunset.”

Dylan tenses, and he’s almost certain there’s a flash of deep purple on his outer edges. They’ve never addressed the content-colored elephant that’s surrounded them since Dylan knew what love and adoration Read as, but here it is now, and it’s doing circus tricks on an oversized beach ball.

“Shit, I didn’t--” Dylan doesn’t know what he ‘didn’t’ but he turns away, moving and reluctantly separates himself from the warmth of Ryan’s chest. “I know it’s-- God, I’m fucked up.”

“Pickle, hey,” Ryan says, puts his hand near Dylan’s, but doesn’t grab it. “Look at me.”

Dylan doesn’t look. He can’t. He knows he’ll see the navy-tinged shame, dull green of disgust, and he doesn’t want to be the reason for that.

“Dylan,” Ryan says, a little more insistent. “It’s okay. Look at me.”

This time, he looks.

He knows what Ryan meant by sunset.

Dylan sighs, watery and a little shaky, tears burning in his eyes. “You’re-- _Ryan_.”

Ryan looks down at his lap and sighs, the pink on his cheeks matching the pigment that swirls into the yellow in his glow. The silence is heavy, weighs down on Dylan’s chest like bricks underwater. All he can hear is his own blood rushing in his ears, the click of Ryan chewing on his nails.

“It’s always been you, Dyl,” he says finally.

  
//

 

Ryan was fourteen when he fell in love with sunsets.

They’re calming, easy to blend under the press and sweep of his Copic markers. Pinks and yellows blend so nicely into the perfect warm orange that he can feel the warmth of deep in his chest.

On Ryan’s twelfth birthday, when his Gift Specialist deemed him fully developed, his parents sprung for all three sets of 72 Copic markers. He drew sunset after sunset and he wasn’t surprised at all when he had to ask his parents for fillers of his favorite yellow.

It’s a warmth that he feels around Dylan. They could be doing something as mundane as taping their sticks together in the basement, or laying the backyard listening to their worn out cassette of The Hip’s Greatest Hits and the yellows and pinks and oranges would follow him.

 

/

 

“You’re always so yellow,” Dylan would say.

Ryan would shrug and say, “Not after losses.” But that was probably the only moment he didn’t feel yellow.

He always felt yellow around Dylan. Well, until he started feeling pink.

 

/

 

Ryan gets dropped off at home from hockey practice one day to a pile of broken crayons in the living room, parents nowhere to be found, and Dylan curled up on the couch, arms slung over his eyes. He can barely hear the sniffling, but he knows it’s there, can see how red Dylan’s nose is from crying. He’s Reading grey, but the type of grey that stems from the quick, stippled mixture of black and white. Like the fuzz at the end of a VHS tape.

He drops his bag at the door as quietly as he can before padding over to Dylan, sitting close to him on the couch.

“Pickle?”

Dylan moves his arm, squints up at Ryan before picking his head up and putting it in Ryan’s lap. Ryan instantly brings his hand to card through Dylan’s curls, ignoring the clench in his heart as Dylan starts shaking as tears run down his face.

“It’s too much,” he says after a minute or ten. “All the colors. I can’t separate them.”

“That’s okay,” Ryan says, and it is. He went through the same thing when he was Dylan’s age, when colors were getting more complex. “You’re okay.”

Dylan takes a shaky breath, presses his face into Ryan’s leg before taking another.

“I just. I don’t know how to -- ” he says, sniffs again. Ryan shushes him, pets at his hair again.

“I have an idea,” says Ryan, shaking Dylan’s shoulder a little. Dylan pushes himself up, albeit a little unsteady, looks up at Ryan with red-rimmed eyes. “Can you go grab my book-bag from the stairs?”

Dylan nods, makes his way out of the living room as Ryan shoves some stuff off of the coffee table. He’s putting a pillow down on the floor as Dylan comes back. Taking the bag from him, he slides down onto the floor, motioning for Dylan to do the same. There’s a flash of confusion on his face before he sits next to Ryan.

“What are we doing?”

Ryan doesn’t answer, instead pulls his sketchbook out of his backpack, setting it on the coffee table in front of Dylan after tearing out a page for himself. Dylan reaches for a colored pencil from the tin on the floor between them, but Ryan stops him, grabbing his hand before he’s able to pick a color.

“I mean, you can use those if you want,” Ryan says, feeling the tips of his ears pink up, “but you can also use these.”

Dylan looks like he’s about to ask what Ryan means when Ryan goes into his bag, pulls out the canvas bag he keeps his Copics in. He unzips it, sets it on the table between their papers, and Dylan’s eyes widen.

“Are you serious?” asks Dylan, and Ryan can hear the faintest bit of a smile threatening to surface.

Ryan nods. “Just be gentle with them.”

“I promise,” Dylan says immediately, hands flying to the bag and picking out a marker. Ryan barely catches a glimpse of the cap, but he knows it’s one of his favorite yellows, and it brings a smile to his face.

They sit there, drawing in companionable silence for almost twenty minutes before Dylan puts the cap on the lilac marker he was using, sets it back in the bag, and leans back.

“I think it’s done,” he whispers, squinting at it for another brief second then setting it down on the coffee table.

“Can I see?” Ryan asks, putting the finishing dots of sand on the beach he had drawn.

Dylan nods and shoves the sketchbook closer to Ryan before drawing his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them.

It’s a sunset. Beautiful swirlings of pinks and yellows, lilacs and oranges, fluffy clouds and the faintest hint of sky blue peeking through them.

At the bottom right hand corner, Dylan’s written his initials, and at the bottom left in his best chicken scratch: _‘For Ry.’_

He can’t stop the tears from pricking at the corners of his eyes, but he manages to blink them away before turning to Dylan.

“You like sunsets,” shrugs Dylan.

“It’s beautiful, Pickle,” Ryan says, his voice only shaking slightly. He covers it by pulling him in by his elbow, messing up the already unruly curls on Dylan’s head.

Hearing Dylan’s laugh is more than worth the ink lost.

 

//

 

He can barely process the words that had left his mouth before he sees Dylan’s eyes widen.

“But you’ve--” Dylan says, squeezes his eyes shut, and more purple swirls into his glow. “What do you--”

Ryan gets up, walks over to the dresser where he set his wallet earlier.

“What are you doing,” says Dylan, the confusion and panic in his voice ringing loud and clear. Ryan never wants to hear that again.

He holds a finger up as he flips his wallet open, digs through the biggest pocket until his fingers catch on the familiar feel of worn sketchbook paper. From the bed, Ryan can hear a breath catch in Dylan’s throat, but he keeps unfolding the paper anyway. As soon as each fold has been bent back, he smooths the paper and sets it down on the mattress next to Dylan, the colorful sunset a powerful contrast to the white duvet.

“It’s always been you,” Ryan repeats, points down at the paper awkwardly before bringing his hand up to scratch at the nape of his neck.

Dylan picks up the drawing gingerly, careful with the nearly 10-year-old paper.

“I took it to Barrie. Then to Niagara,” Ryan admits, feeling his cheeks burn, “and then it was in my pocket during the draft. Been in my wallet ever since.”

“Ryan,” breathes Dylan, a little watery and barely there. He looks up at Ryan, watery eyes and warm pink glow, and Ryan thinks he’s beautiful.

“I kinda love you, kid,” he says, and the words feel a little weird on his tongue with the connotation. He loves it. “More than I should, probably, but--”

He doesn’t get to finish that sentence, because in one movement, Dylan is standing in front of him and he’s lost the ability to make words happen.

“Dyl.”

“Stop me if I'm wrong,” Dylan says, one whoosh of breath as his lips get closer and closer to Ryan's.

Ryan doesn’t answer, doesn’t stop him, but instead closes the gap and presses their lips together. It’s a soft, tentative thing and he feels like his heart is going to beat straight out of his chest. His knees are weak, and his head is clouded, but Dylan is burning so bright yellow he can see it even behind his eyelids.

He never wants to leave this moment, as illogical as he knows it is, but then Dylan makes a soft noise against his lips and suddenly logic doesn’t exist.

 

**//**

 

Connor’s wearing his blocker, but if he took it off he knows he’d catch the turquoise-tinted waves of annoyance and exasperation from anyone in a three-foot radius. There’s a hum of it that’s sneaking through anyway -- it’s fuzzy, like muffled microphone feedback  -- but a glance around the room after their overtime loss reassures him that it’s not all directed at him. After an attempt at a placating, ‘we’ll-get-the-next-game’ pep talk, he moves into his postgame routine, almost craving the burn of ice on his bruises.

He’s already settled onto one of the PT tables, ice pack taped to his ribcage, another to his shoulder, when Dylan walks in and collapses face-first onto the table next to him with a sigh. The trainer gives him a long-suffering look, but Connor can tell he’s only a little annoyed. Connor gives him an apologetic smile, gets an eye-roll and an amused shake of the head for his efforts.

“Ice,” Connor directs, and Dylan groans. “If you lay down any longer, you’ll never get up.”

Another exaggerated groan.

“Go, Stromer.”

“ _Fine,_ mom, jeez,” he whines, but he pushes himself back up anyway, grabbing an ice pack from the freezer. He’s settling back onto the table when Connor checks his phone for what feels like the twentieth time since he sat down ten minutes ago.

Snow. So soon, blowing through the town over from Erie. Three whole inches of it. He can almost hear the chiming of snowflakes hitting the pavement if he focuses hard enough, even takes off his blocker tape where it’s still wrapped around his wrist to sink into the sound rushing in his ears. Wind chimes, he thinks absently, but there’s a new sound with it.

It’s a warm one, which is a bit confusing. Crackling, he places, like logs on a fire. There’s a pink glow around it, but his sounds and colors are always a bit mixed up right after he takes his blocker off, so he doesn’t think much of it, just wakes his phone up where it’s fallen asleep in his hand.

He thumbs through the weather app and doesn’t realize he’s been squeaking his heel against the vinyl covering of the table until Dylan tosses an ice cube at him. The trainer scolds him, albeit a little half-heartedly.

He looks up, a little shocked, but rolls his eyes. “What the fuck?”

“You’re driving me nuts,” Dylan says, but there’s no fire behind it, really.

Connor flushes, but he can’t really hide his smile as he tucks his phone in the pocket of his hoodie.

“What’s got you all --” he waves his hand absently -- “jittery and weird.”

“Fuck you,” Connor says easily, which earns himself a pointed glance from the trainer.

Dylan looks at him, and doesn’t stop looking at him. It’s a little frightening. “Davo. What’s up.”

It’s not a question.

“It’s gonna snow,” Connor says, and shrugs it off, even though he can tell he’s still smiling.

Dylan raises an eyebrow, shifts his icepack. “You’re Canadian. Snow is easier to come by than air some days.”

“But it’s the _first_ snow, Stromer,” Connor says, bringing his phone back out and unlocking it, turning the screen toward Dylan.

“There’ll be more, bud,” says Dylan, but Connor can hear edges of purple in his tone -- waves of amusement, he recognizes.

“Just -- Come outside with me tonight.”

Dylan looks like he’s going to say something, but he’s interrupted by the incessant buzz of his phone in his pocket. As he answers, Connor can hear the pink-tinged sound from earlier a little clearer, can feel the warmth of the crackling fire in his chest.

“Hey, Ry,” Dylan answers easily. “What’s up?”

Connor brings his own phone out, fiddles with it as he tries not to listen in, but some colors bleed through anyway. He’s picking up some deep blue bass, something that only shows up when people are disappointed, and it sets Connor on edge. He feels like he’s intruding, so he grips his blocker tape, tries to stick even just a stray corner to his skin. It hardly works, just makes the sound a little blurry, but it helps a little.

“You’re still gonna make it in though, right?” Dylan asks, and Connor doesn’t need his Gift to know that the disappointment is still there. Dylan sighs, but it’s one of relief instead of concern, and then his usual happy yellow -- the sound of blades on fresh ice -- is thrumming in Connor’s ears.

“Yeah,” Dylan is saying when Connor allows himself to pay attention. “I mean, I can ask Coach, but we’ve got the Steelheads on Monday so I think it would be fine.”

Connor furrows his eyebrows, tilts his head, and Dylan holds up a finger with a bit of a smile.

Dylan’s face is twinged with a bit of pink as he says, “He’s not-- Shut up. I mean, I’ll ask him.”

As Dylan wraps up his phone call, Connor pulls down at his screen to refresh his app. The snow is even closer now, Connor sees, the angry red splotch on the radar creeping closer and closer to Erie. He wishes the radar -- and the general population -- would agree with him that snow isn’t something that sounds angry.

“What’s up with Ryan?” Connor asks, pocketing his phone.

Dylan’s face flashes with something Connor doesn’t recognize, turns a bit brighter of a pink. “Uh, nothing much. He’s coming down tomorrow for the game, but he doesn’t wanna drive home alone in the snow, so I might drive with him if it’s cool with coach.”

Connor nods. “Makes sense.”

“You can -- I mean, if you want, you can come with us,” Dylan says, and his tone is almost the same shade as his face -- cotton candy pink, a bit of light blue at the ends. “Ryan told me to ask.”

“Only asking because your brother told you to, I see how I rank,” Connor chirps, and he earns another ice-cube to the arm. “If it’s cool with Coach, it’s cool with me.”

“Cool,” Dylan says, only barely mocking.

Cool, Connor thinks.

 

/

 

The snow is just starting to fall as they’re walking out of the arena. Most of the team has shuffled off to their cars or billet families, but Connor is standing at the entrance, beaming up at the sky as he lets the snowflakes fall into his eyelashes.

“Fuckin’ weirdo,” he hears from behind him, but it’s laced with lilac-amusement and that sweet, sweet pink that seems to trail Dylan.

“Yeah, whatever,” Connor says, not bothering to open his eyes.

He can feel Dylan standing next to him, close enough that it’d be impossible not to Read him. It calms him.

They drove to the rink together in Connor’s car, which Connor only registers when Dylan nudges him out of the doorway. “Let’s go,” he says. “I want ice cream.”

Connor doesn’t want to move, but he does anyway, taking his car keys out of the pocket of his coat.

“You’re gonna start associating ice cream with sadness if we keep getting it after losses,” says Connor, but he’s already setting his internal GPS to Denny’s Ice Cream Stand.

Dylan shrugs. “Forgive, forget, eat cookies n’ cream. That’s my motto.”

Connor shakes his head, but unlocks the door for Dylan anyway.

  
/

 

“It's, like, negative-three, Davo,” Dylan says through a bite of his ice cream. “Get in the car.”

Connor just leans against the windshield, settles on the cold metal of the hood and takes a bite of his own ice cream.

“Nobody's keeping you out here,” he says.

_‘Please stay out here with me,’_ he means.

Dylan huffs -- Connor can almost hear the eyeroll -- and climbs up next to Connor with a shake of his head. Despite the chill of the air and the ice cream, Connor’s chest is warm with that same fireplace pink from earlier tonight. He doesn't have to think too hard to know it’s Dylan.

He takes another bite, pushes that away for later, and tries to focus on the little ‘pings’ of snow falling around him. They’re soft, plinky things ringing in his ears; one of the only sounds he could listen to forever, he thinks.

“Why are you so jazzed about the snow?” Dylan asks, another glob of ice cream shoved in his cheek. Connor will never understand how Dylan can bite his ice cream, but there’s a lot of things he still doesn’t understand about him.

Connor pushes a lump of cookie dough around in his dish, thinks of the easiest way to say it without telling Dylan exactly why.

He shrugs, says, “Gift stuff.” and leaves it at that. Dylan hums his acknowledgement, and he leaves it.

 

Eventually, they both get cold enough for their teeth to start chattering, so Connor starts the car as Dylan tosses their dishes out. He’s covered in snow when he finally plops into the passenger seat; his eyelashes are glimmering with it, and Connor thinks he’s beautiful.

“I’m fuckin’ freezing,” he says, rubbing his hands together.

“Give the heat a minute,” Connor says, patting the dash of his car. “She takes a second.”

Dylan holds his hand in front of the fans, but the car definitely does take a second, and he’s met with only cold air.

“Davo, feel my hands,” Dylan whines, but before Connor can chirp him, Dylan’s got one of his hands on Connor’s.

It’s a bit exciting, Connor thinks, the fact that Dylan could press in a little at his wrist and feel just how crazy his heart is going. He’d honestly be surprised if Dylan couldn’t feel it now.

“Cold hands, warm heart?” Connor says, shooting for humorous but falling just a bit short. “Isn’t that the old wives tale?”

Dylan laughs and Connor’s never heard anything that sounds so much like snow in his life.

“Something like that,” he says, taking his hands from Connor’s and putting them back in front of the heat vents.

  
//

 

“Dylan, hurry _up,”_ Ryan says, adjusting the last of Dylan and Connor’s hockey gear in the back of his truck. “We’re gonna get caught in the storm.”

Connor tugs his toque further over his ears and laughs, a puff of white escaping his lips.

“It’s not my fault!” Dylan calls, pulling his own toque on as he locks the door. “I couldn’t find my hoodie.”

“Like you aren’t going to steal one of mine anyway,” Connor says, opening the back door and climbing into the cab of Ryan’s truck. Dylan makes an offended sound, Ryan laughs, and Connor feels the pink radiating from their tone.

They’re on the road soon after, blowing through Erie like the storm that’s on their bumper. Ryan’s got the local country station on, but it’s coming through spotty at best, setting Connor on edge with the crackling fuzz.

Dylan, of course, keeps fiddling with the stereo controls, trying to find a station until finally --

“Alright, enough already,” Ryan says, sighing as he pops open the center console. “Aux cord is in here, don’t make me regret telling you.”

“Fuck _yes,_ ” Dylan cheers over the _‘crackle pop’_ of the aux cord being plugged in.

Connor couldn’t tell you what Dylan put on; between the soothing pink waves filling the cab of the truck and the familiar tinny, tinkling sounds of the snow outside, Connor’s asleep in minutes.

 

/

 

It’s dark outside when he wakes up, but that’s not the reason Connor keeps hearing dark blue.

“-- love you, you know that,” Dylan is saying, a little muffled from where he’s got his face smushed up against where his hoodie makes a makeshift pillow against the window.

“I do know that,” Ryan affirms, and then a single, weak wave of pink pings in Connor’s ears. “That doesn’t mean you can’t like him, too. I see how pink you are around him.”

There’s a sigh, one Connor can’t assign to either of the boys in the front half of the truck, but it sounds the same as the stereo fuzz from earlier.

“I want both of you,” says Dylan, and Connor can feel his pulse pick up. “Is that bad?”

The word _want_ is ringing in his ears, a red-toned, sultry sound that can’t be taken as anything other than the point blank admission that it was. His mouth goes a little dry.

“I can’t tell you how to feel, Pickle,” Ryan says, “but I don’t think that’s bad.”

There’s a wave of light blue intertwining with the pink and red waves from earlier and Connor suddenly feels like he’s intruding.

He sighs heavily, then there aren’t any other sounds beside the chiming snow as he drifts off again.

 

//

 

He was dreaming, he reasons. Connor doesn’t even really remember what happened, can’t remember if he opened his eyes or not, and it didn’t make much sense anyway.

Right?

“We’re almost there,” Ryan is saying when Connor blinks his eyes open. “Might wanna wake up sleeping beauty back there.”

“Fuck off,” Connor grumbles, turning his neck to try and stretch out the soreness.

Dylan laughs, a light, breathy thing that makes Connor’s chest ache.

_Want_ , he remembers hearing. _Both of you._

“There’s a Timmies on the way,” Dylan says, nudging Ryan in the arm. “I’m gonna need a double-double if we’re heading out to the pond tonight.”

“Funny,” Ryan says, and Connor doesn’t need to see the eye-roll to know it happened. “I didn’t know that’s how you say the sentence ‘please, Ryan, spend your hard-earned money on my stupid coffee.’”

“Please, Ryan,” Connor says, pulling a twenty out of his wallet and nudging Ryan’s shoulder, “spend the OHL’s barely-there-budget on our stupid coffee.”

“Okay,” Ryan says, a quick smiled flashed through the rearview as Dylan scoffs. “We can keep him.”

A flash of silver. Surprise, Connor notes. His cheeks burn red.

“Gee, thanks.”

 

/

 

They decide to forgo the pond skate in favor of real beds, and it’s a familiar path for Connor from the front door to the guest bedroom. It’s become a favorite joke of Trish’s over the past couple of summers that they ‘ _should really start calling it Connor’s room,’_ and, well, she isn’t exactly wrong.

The three of them brush their teeth in Dylan and Ryan’s shared bathroom in an easy silence before Dylan and Connor head to their respective rooms.

“I’ll be up later,” Connor hears Ryan say, right before his door shuts. Dylan’s door shuts soon after, and Connor’s not sure why that matters.

He scrolls through NHL recaps until his eyes water with fatigue, bookmarking a couple of highlights to show Dylan in the morning.

As he’s turning over and settling into the sheets, Connor hears the creak of the stairs, the snick of the door next to his room opening and shutting, and then -- albeit faint -- muffled yellow waves.

Maybe he’s dreaming that, too.

  
/  


Connor wakes up to the smell of bacon, Frank Sinatra, and the muffled clattering of pots and pans.

He doesn’t even bother to check the state of his hair before padding down to the kitchen to investigate, in search of coffee and whatever smells so damn good.

Dylan is standing next to Ryan at the stove, one hand at his waist, the other dipping dangerously into the bacon pan.

“You’re going to hurt yourself, dipshit,” Ryan scolds, hip-checking Dylan half-heartedly.

Dylan hums as he chews on his piece of stolen bacon. “Eh, worth it.”

When Ryan laughs, Connor can almost feel the warmth of the fireplace-pink in his chest. It feels intimate, like he’s interrupting a moment, like the pink waves weren’t meant for him.

He knows they aren’t. When he yawns exaggeratedly while grabbing a coffee mug and Dylan jumps back feigning a bacon burn, Connor hears nothing but white noise, proving so.

Later, when Connor heads upstairs for a hoodie, he can’t help but notice how Ryan’s bed is still made exactly how it was when they got into town last night.

 

/

 

They win the game against the Steelheads and Coach gives a valiant attempt at his ‘be responsible’ speech, but it falls on deaf ears. The majority of the boys know exactly what age you have to be to enjoy an adult beverage here, thank you very much.

So, they end up in Mikey McLeod’s basement -- of all places -- cans of shitty beer pressed into their hands and some terrible top-40 playing on someone’s bluetooth speaker.

Connor kind of loves it.

Connor is also kind of drunk, which is why he doesn’t really question it when Dylan comes up behind him while he’s talking to Taylor, wraps his dumb, gangly arms over Connor’s shoulders and says, “you’re so pretty.”

It takes everything he has and another drink of his beer not to laugh. “You’re so drunk, Stromer.”

Connor feels more than sees Dylan shrug, but he also feels the press of Dylan’s goofy smile in the top of his shoulder.

“‘M serious, Davo,” Dylan slurs, patting Connor’s chest. “You’re so pink an’ yellow. Like--- what’re those flowers…”

Connor quirks an eyebrow even though Dylan can’t see it.

“Tulips?” Taylor provides, and one of the arms draped around Connor rises and points directly at Taylor’s face.

“Tulips!” he crows in Connor’s ear. “Tha’s what you look like!”

Connor gives Taylor a look that he hopes is reading as ‘ _do you have any idea what he’s saying?’_ but judging by Taylor’s raised eyebrows and slow backward steps away, he hasn’t the slightest idea either.

Connor untangles himself from Dylan’s grip and leads them over to a recently cleared spot on the couch, letting Dylan sit first before joining him. He might be a little too close, but he always wants to be a little too close, and he’s got his friend Moulson to give him the courage to do it now. It’s fine. This is fine.

“Well now you’re, like, aqua. Are you worried? You’re only aqua when you’re worried,” Dylan rambles, poking Connor in the shoulder a couple of times, probably for no other reason beside the fact that he is a touchy fucker.

Wait.

“Wha’d’you mean?” Connor asks.

_‘How do you know that aqua sounds like worry,’_ he means.

“You’re _aqua_ ,” Dylan repeats, as if saying it with more emphasis will connect a meaning in Connor’s head. “Your glow. It’s --”

“Dylan, shut up, dude,” Mikey says, giving him a stern look from the other couch. “Don’t tell him while you’re wasted.”

Dylan’s eyes go wide, cheeks pink, and Connor understands.

“Wait,” Connor says, wishing he was more sober than he was presently for the tenth time in as many minutes. “Is this -- Is that your Gift?”

“I, uh,” Dylan stammers, pushes himself to stand up. “I gotta call Ry.”

His phone is plugged in by the entertainment center, so it’s not too hard for Connor to follow him through the throng of equally plastered hockey players.

Ryan’s already answered by the time Connor’s gotten to Dylan’s side.

“Nonono,” Dylan slurs, “I didn’t tell him _that_ I just-- Davo, talk to Ryan.”

The phone is shoved into Connor’s hand before he can say otherwise.

“Uh, hello?”

Ryan sighs on the other end, crackly and amused. “Did someone give him rum?”

“I’m sorry?”

“He only confesses Gift stuff when he’s exhausted or has had rum,” Ryan explains and Connor laughs a little. “Was it Mikey? I’ll kick his ass.”

Connor laughs again, and Dylan slumps against the wall with a small smile on his face.

“There may have been rum,” Connor admits.

“Fuckin’ Michael,” Ryan laughs.

There’s a beat of silence and Connor’s about to hand the phone back to Dylan when he hears Ryan say, “You guys should probably head to Mikey’s room. We’ll probably still be talking after the party is done.”

Connor nods, forgetting Ryan can’t see him, but drags Dylan off the wall and up the stairs.

“Grab him a bottle of--”

“Purple Gatorade, I know,” Connor says, tucking his phone between his shoulder and his ear as he opens the fridge. There’s a whole shelf of assorted Gatorades -- fuckin’ hockey families -- and he reaches back to pull a purple one out for Dylan, who accepts it gratefully.

“Fuckin’ beauty,” Dylan says, cracking the seal of the bottle and taking a long pull from it.

Ryan laughs again, but it’s softer this time. “Glad someone has a handle on this kid.”

“I wouldn’t quite call it a handle,” Connor says, shoving Dylan up the next flight of stairs and into Mikey’s bedroom. Dylan dives straight for Mikey’s bed, sprawling out and nuzzling into the pillows. Connor loves him.

Ryan must hear the door snick shut because he takes a deep breath and goes, “So, he said you look pretty, eh?”

“If he’s makin’ fun of me tell him to fuck off,” Dylan mumbles into the pillows. Connor shoves him over so he’s on his side, sits down near his hips.

“Shut up, Dyls,” Connor says, turning the phone away. “Uh, yeah, Ryan.”

Ryan hums in acknowledgement. “Did he say what colors?”

“Yellow and--”

“Pink!” Dylan shouts, but Connor shushes him again. He puts his finger in front of his mouth, shushes, and then repeats himself a little more quietly. “Pink, Ryry, Davo’s all pink.”

“Told him so,” Ryan says on the other side of the line. “So, uh, I hope you know this, but you kind of have a crush on him.”

Connor swallows the lump in his throat, looks at Dylan where he’s already basically half-asleep, the smallest smile on his face.

“Uh,” says Connor, eloquent as ever. “I mean, yeah. I know.”

It’s quiet for a beat too long before Ryan finally says, “you do?”

Connor shrugs, looks down at his lap with a sigh.

“I guess I just--” Connor starts, bringing the hand not holding on to Dylan’s phone to scratch at the nape of his own neck. “The colors thing. Me, too.”

“Come again?”

“I mean, it’s not really the same,” Connor explains. “You guys can see them, but I can hear them? I thought I was projecting when I kept hearing pink tones around Dyl.”

“Pink is the same for you then?” Ryan asks, amusement in his tone replaced with seriousness.

“Kinda like… fond, I guess?” Connor says, and Ryan hums.

“I don’t think you were projecting, bud,” he says, and there’s something about the lilt in his voice that makes Connor a little sad. “He’s pink whenever he talks about you.”

“Maybe that’s just his face,” Connor jokes, if only to distract himself from his heart trying to beat out of his chest.

That brings a laugh out of Ryan. “Also possible.”

Dylan shifts a little, moves to cuddle his Gatorade bottle, and Connor has to prompt him to drink a little more instead.

“Lemme talk to Ry,” he grumbles, sitting up and taking another drink from his bottle.

Ryan must hear Dylan’s request because he laughs a little, says “just put me on speaker. He’ll keep whining if you don’t.”

Connor laughs a little before bringing the phone away from his ear, switching it to speaker, and setting the phone on the bed in between him and Dylan.

“You there, Pickle?” Ryan’s voice crackles through.

Dylan hums in acknowledgement and despite the alcohol clouding the sound, Connor can feel the waves of pink deep in his chest.

Maybe they are for him after all.

“Earth to Connor,” Dylan says, effectively snapping Connor out of his totally-not-creepy staring.

His cheeks are pink. He’s sure his glow is, too. Whatever that means. He’d like to find out.

“So, um,” he says, Dylan leans into him. He’s warm, almost too warm, but Connor lets it happen anyway. “What’s a glow?"

Ryan explains easily, in terms that are easy for both Connor to understand, and for Dylan to add in despite his intoxication level. Connor chimes in whenever things they describe are similar to his own Gift. It’s new, and exciting, and maybe a little terrifying; Connor’s never told anyone about his Gift before.

He says as much to the Stromes, earning him a hug from Dylan.

“‘M glad you trust us,” Dylan says.

“You’re my best friend,” Connor shrugs, because crush or no crush, that’s still the truth. He can still feel how red his ears are.

Ryan clears his throat obnoxiously, and Connor laughs. “You’re alright, Ryan.”

“Fuckin’ brat,” he says, no fire behind it at all.

After it’s all out in the open, Connor sighs heavily, like it’s the first deep breath he’s taken in months. It might be.

Next to him, Dylan yawns and starts to sway closer to the pillows.

“I think we’re losing Dyl,” Connor says softly.

Ryan hums, sounding pretty tired himself. “I can let you guys go.”

“Stay,” Dylan says, almost a question but not quite. Connor isn’t sure who it’s directed towards.

“Me or Connor?” Ryan asks.

“Yes,” says Dylan.

Connor and Ryan laugh, but Connor does crawl under the covers with Dylan, setting his phone down on the pillow above their heads. Dylan turns over, curls himself into Connor’s chest, and he knows Dylan would be lying if he said he couldn’t feel it.

He doesn’t know how long it’s been before he feels Dylan’s easy, dead-asleep breathing.

“Love you, little sunset,” Ryan says. “Night, Connor.”

The line goes dead, Dylan sighs, and Connor doesn’t get much sleep at all.

  
//  


Dylan’s on a plane en route to Long Island, and he can’t help but think about how it’s the middle of May, weeks before the Draft, and they still haven’t talked about _it._

Sure, he and Connor have been a little more open to each other when it comes to their Gifts, but neither of them are addressing the fact that there is a fully acknowledged mutual crush hanging right in front of their faces.

Neither of them want to be the first one to admit it, Dylan guesses.

Ryan isn’t one for playing the martyr, though, and he brings it up almost immediately after Dylan gets off the plane.

Dylan barely has his seatbelt on before Ryan says, “have you said anything to Connor?”

“Hello to you, too, Ryan,” Dylan grumbles, running a hand through his hair as he settles into his seat. “My flight was great, thanks for asking.”

Ryan thwacks him on the thigh, just once, just hard enough where Dylan knows there’s going to be a mark.

“ _Jesus_ , Ryan.”

“You seriously haven’t?” Ryan says, and Dylan can’t tell what the edge in his voice is. Relief? Jealousy?

“When was I supposed to tell him?” Dylan says, more exhausted than anything else. “After we got swept by Owen Sound, or before he fucked off to Edmonton for PR shit?”

Ryan grimaces. He knows Dylan’s right.

It’s quiet for a while after that, nothing but the radio filling the silence. They’re almost to Ryan and JT’s apartment when Ryan nudges Dylan.

“If you want, we could tell him together,” he offers, caution in his voice as if Dylan was some scared puppy he was trying to coax out of hiding. “Like, on Skype or something.”

Dylan’s about to say that the idea is a little unorthodox, but that’s the thing, he supposes. There’s no real way to tell your best friend that you’re in love with your brother, but also a little bit in love with him.

“Yeah?” Dylan says finally, soft and a little uneasy.

“We’ll do it together,” says Ryan, reaching for Dylan’s hand. Dylan grabs it, lacing his fingers easily through Ryan’s.

“What if he--”

“Don’t think like that,” he says, knowing exactly where Dylan was going. Dylan would bet that they’re on the same page. They usually are anyway.

“Okay,” Dylan says.

Ryan squeezes his hand and doesn’t let go until he absolutely has to.

 

/

 

**Sent:**

**Dylan || 8:32pm**

landed 

 

**Inbox:**

**davooooo || 8:35pm**

good. I was starting to think u died

 

**Sent:**

**Dylan || 8:37pm**

 

**Dylan || 8:38pm**

hey so can we FT at 9? its important

 

**Inbox:**

**davooooo || 8:43pm**

yes?? everything ok??

 

**Sent:**

**Dylan || 8:45pm**

yea no everythings fine.

 

**Inbox:**

**davooooo || 8:46pm**

yea i totally believe that

i’ll call u in 10?

 

**Sent:**

**Dylan || 8:47pm**

ok

 

/  


Dylan doesn’t run to his backpack to grab his laptop but it’s a near thing. Ryan doesn’t judge him for it, just sits in his usual spot on the couch and waits for Dylan to sit next to him.

He’s maybe shaking a little as he types in his password, the slight tremor of his hand forcing him to re-enter it. Once it’s unlocked, Ryan takes Dylan’s shaking hand in his own, squeezing it once, then twice.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he promises, pressing an easy kiss to Dylan’s forehead. “Either way, it’ll be okay.”

Dylan nods, presses his own kiss to Ryan’s lips, and prepares for the worst.

True to his word, Connor’s contact photo pops up on Dylan’s laptop at 8:57. Dylan can feel his heart start to hammer against his ribcage before clicking ‘accept’. Carefully out of the frame, Ryan keeps his hand laced with Dylan’s, a silent promise.

“Hey,” Connor says, an easy smile despite the terrible angle at which he’s holding his phone. “Gonna fill me in on what’s going on?”

“Uh, actually,” Dylan says, bringing the hand that’s not within Ryan’s up to scratch at the back of his neck. “Yeah.”

Connor quirks an eyebrow, tilts his head a little. “Okay?”

“Uh, so,” Dylan starts, not exactly sure how to start this. He looks at Ryan for help, as if he was going to find the right words written in the curve of his lips, or the flush of his cheeks.

“Rip the bandaid off, Stromer,” Connor eggs on, but he sounds a little concerned.

Dylan looks down at his keyboard, closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath. “Ryan and I are together.”

Ryan squeezes his hand.

Connor does nothing.

The mood does a complete 180, but Dylan's head keeps spinning. He’s suddenly thankful for his blocker ring, getting pressed into his skin by Ryan’s hand; he doesn’t even want to know how Connor is Reading right now. It's just... Connor's face. Blank, emotionless, prime media-robot.

Colors be damned, it's his face that will haunt Dylan every time he closes his eyes.

But the worst part? Dylan's the one that put it there.

He never wants to be the reason Connor makes that face.

“We get it if you’re uncomfortable,” says Ryan, and Dylan knows he sees it too. “We get it if it’s a lot. We just thought after -- “

“How long,” Connor says, his voice rough as if this is the first time he’s spoken in months. It’s not a question.

Dylan gives a short, watery sigh. “Last season, officially, I guess.”

“Last season,” Connor repeats. There’s nothing in his tone that would give away how he’s feeling right now, not even a shred of something Dylan can cling to that would assure him he’s not losing one of his best friends in the world, right in front of him.

Nobody speaks for a minute that feels like ten. Dylan can’t bear to look up at the screen, even contemplates just getting up and walking away, but he knows he can’t.

“Look, I get it if you’re grossed out,” he says in one quick breath, getting the words out before he changes his mind. “I get it if you think it’s fucked up and you never want to talk to me again--”

“Jesus, Stromer,” Connor says, “calm down.”

Dylan stops, or maybe the world does. He’s not entirely sure.

Connor sighs, looks up at the ceiling as he’s carding his hand through his hair. “I’m not-- It’s just a lot right now, okay?”

Ryan nods, maybe a little too quick. “No, we get it.”

“I just-- I’m not stupid, guys.” Connor says, sitting up, going back to his media voice. “The car ride this winter, staying in your house, all of the phone calls in between. It was all-- really fucking pink.”

Ryan goes to say something, but Dylan knows Connor isn’t done and squeezes Ryan’s hand in warning.

“I guess I just-- Ryan making me realize I had feelings for you at that stupid fucking party, ” Connor starts. He scrubs a hand at his face, tries again. “I’m starting to think it was stupid to think some of that pink was for me.”

“Connor--”

“I wasn’t misreading, was I?” he asks, eyebrows knit together. “I mean, it’s happened before, but I just felt--”

“No,” Dylan says, firm and sure. “You Read me like a goddamn book, Davo. That’s my whole problem here.”

Connor stops, opens his mouth, then shuts it again.

“You heard us in the car,” Ryan says, and Connor looks up. “You weren’t entirely asleep.”

Connor chews on the inside of his lip, nods once. “I thought it was a weird dream.”

It’s quiet again, one of those terrible, looming silences that leave a lot in the air. Dylan hates it.

Connor breaks it first. “You said you wanted both of us.”

Dylan doesn’t deny it; there’s no point now.  

“Do you, uh. Is that still--” Connor stammers. Both Dylan and Ryan can see him searching for the right words.

“Yeah, I do,” Dylan says finally.

Connor nods, slow and thoughtful. “Uh, so. Thanks for telling me.”

Dylan nods, the smallest smile on his face as he feels a glimmer of hope in his chest.

“I’m gonna need a bit to, like, process this,” says Connor. He looks exhausted, like he’s aged ten years in this ten minute conversation. Dylan can relate. “I’m not sure how to feel about this, but I don’t hate you. Either of you.”

“Take all the time you need,” Ryan says and then it’s eerily quiet again.

Connor sighs, sharp and fast, then says, “I’m gonna -- I gotta go. I promise I’ll talk to you later, I just--”

“Yeah, no that’s fine,” Dylan says, maybe a bit too quick. “We’ll talk later.”

“Okay.”

They hang up, the screen fades to black, and Dylan is crying.

He didn’t realize he was, didn’t feel the tears burning in the corners of his eyes, but it’s easy to recognize when Ryan swipes them away with the pad of his thumb.

“Well that sucked,” Dylan laughs, watery and sad as he presses the heels of his hands to his eyes.

Ryan shifts to put Dylan’s laptop on the coffee table, then tucks a leg under his thigh to face Dylan.

“Could’ve gone worse,” Ryan says with a shrug.

The worst part, Dylan thinks, is that Ryan is right. Connor said he didn’t hate them. Connor said he’d talk to them later. Connor said he felt pink around Dylan.

“Can we go lay down?” Dylan asks, voice only wobbling a little. “I’m just-- I’m so tired, Ry.”

Ryan gets up, offers his hand to Dylan and pulls him up once he takes it, and doesn’t let go. They walk to Ryan’s room in silence, nothing to hear but their soft footsteps against the carpet.

When the door is shut, Dylan lets go of Ryan’s hand, places both of his on Ryan’s cheeks and kisses him, hard and maybe a little biting. It takes Ryan a second to catch up, but when he does, Dylan can feel every bit of doubt, every bit of worry bleed out of him.

Ryan breaks it first, breathing a little heavy as he presses a kiss to the tip Dylan’s nose.

“I’m still here, Pickle,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Dylan knows, but the confirmation is appreciated.

They untangle and head over to the bed, extra pillows getting tossed god knows where as Ryan turns the covers down and climbs in, patting the space next to him.

Dylan’s about to slide in next to him when Ryan gives him a look, points at the tungsten band on Dylan’s finger.

“Off,” he says gently, and Dylan complies, shutting his eyes before sliding the band off and dropping it on the nightstand with a clatter.

That’s right, Dylan remembers. No blockers in bed, no matter the circumstance.

When he finally slides in, it’s easy to curl up into Ryan’s chest, his sheets, his warmth. It feels like coming home; safe, secure, protected.

“We’ll be okay,” Ryan says, pressing a kiss into Dylan’s hair. “I promise.”

Dylan barely believes it, but it calms the ache in his chest just enough where he’s able to drift off.

He falls asleep wondering what it would be like to have Connor here, too.

 

//

 

The day Dylan leaves for Florida, right after he drops him off at the airport, Ryan gets a text from Connor. 

Not in the groupchat they already have with him and Dylan. Just to him.

**Inbox:**

**Connor || 9:35am**

hey can we talk when you get a minute?

 

Ryan takes a deep breath, only hesitates for a second before clicking into Connor’s contact details and calling him. 

Connor answers on the third ring, a breathy little, “hey.”

Ryan already feels like his heart is going to beat out of his chest. 

“Hey, Davo,” he says, trying to sound calmer than he knows he is. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to, uh,” Connor starts, and Ryan can almost hear him thinking. "I’ve been thinking.”

Ryan hums, an encouraging little sound, urging Connor to go on.

“I really care about Dylan,” he starts, and Ryan smiles. “And I know you obviously care about him, too.” 

There’s a hesitation in his voice that makes Ryan’s chest ache. 

“I guess I just have trouble seeing where I fit in here,” Connor admits with a sigh. “Like, it’s okay if you don’t like me as much as you like Dylan. I know that I’m walking into something that’s been a sure thing for a while but--”

“Connor.”

“Yeah?”

“I wouldn’t even consider this if I didn’t like you, too,” Ryan says. It makes him feel like a middle schooler, checking ‘yes’ on a ‘do you like me yes or no’ note, but it’s real and it’s true. Connor needed to hear it as much as Ryan needed to say it.

“ _ Oh,”  _ Connor says. “That’s-- kind of funny actually because you were, uh,” there’s a pause, then some rustling. Ryan waits him out. “You were the first guy I ever had a crush on.”

Ryan smiles so hard his cheeks hurt. It’s a nice thought, remembering the first time fluffy little Connor McDavid walked into his house, following after Dylan with careful steps and polite hellos; remembering how when Dylan would talk about NHL scouts coming to Ryan’s games and how he’s ‘ _ going to the OHL isn’t that so cool, Connor?’  _ and Connor would stammer out whatever positive response would come to mind. 

He laughs a little, even though he doesn’t mean to. 

“I figured,” he says, light and easy. “You always Read kinda pink when you were over, I just thought it was for Dylan.” 

“I’m not sure who I had a bigger crush on, to tell you the truth,” Connor laughs, bashful. 

There’s a beat of silence, but it’s not as heavy as the one they left their conversation on a week ago, and much, much shorter. 

“I think I love him,” Connor says, small and barely audible. “And I think, after a while, maybe I’d be able to love you, too.” 

Ryan laughs once, soft and easy. “I think that’s our answer then, eh? “

“Yeah, I guess so,” Connor says, smile evident in his tone. 

“If we do this,” Ryan says, making sure the ‘if’ is stressed, “I want you to know we’re both here to support you.”

“No, I know,” says Connor, quick and honest. 

“I mean it,” Ryan says.

It’s Connor’s turn to laugh, then. “I know, Ryan.”

“Okay,” says Ryan, and he’s not sure he’s going to be able to stop smiling any time soon. “Listen, I’ve gotta run, but FaceTime me when Dyl gets to you, okay?” 

“We’ll tell him together then?” Connor says. The way he says ‘together’ sounds new and timid. Ryan loves it.

“Together,” he repeats. 

Another beat of silence.

“So we’re, like, actually doing this,” says Connor, even and confident. 

“Yeah, Davo,” smiles Ryan. “I think we are.”

 

/

 

“Please tell me this isn’t some kind of joke,” Dylan says, face set and void of any emotion. 

Connor looks hurt at the idea of joking about this at all, and Ryan can understand why. 

“You’re not joking,” states Dylan, the slightest dusting of pink on his cheeks. “We’re-- guys are we really?”

Connor shifts, and even though it’s off-screen, Ryan knows they’re holding hands. Connor’s the first one to smile, but Dylan mirrors it almost instantly before turning toward the screen, toward Ryan.

“Holy shit,” he says, the smallest gleam in his eyes. 

Ryan beams at the two of them. Three days has never felt longer. 

“You two can, uh, celebrate later if you want,” Ryan offers with a shrug. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Dylan’s face goes bright red, all the way down his neck and to the tips of his ears, opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but Connor beats him to it. 

“It wouldn’t feel right without you,” he says. Ryan is very glad he’s already sitting down.

Okay,  _ now  _ three days has never felt longer.

 

//

 

The day before the draft, Dylan wakes up to his obnoxiously early alarm and Connor’s arms wrapped around his waist, successfully doing his best impersonation of a goddamn octopus. 

Even when he’s sleeping, Connor’s glow is the perfectly swirled mixture of pink, yellow and white: affection, happiness, calm. While Dylan would love to lay here all day, get lost in the sunrise of Connor’s glow and drift back to sleep--

“We gotta go get Ryan,” Connor mumbles into Dylan’s neck. “And food.”

Dylan smiles, presses a kiss into Connor’s hair. “Ryan, then food.”

Connor eventually untangles himself and they’re up and out of the hotel soon after. The cab ride is decent, made better by still-sleepy, malleable Connor pressed to his side.  
  


/

 

The car ride to the hotel is charged with a weird energy that Dylan can’t quite describe. It feels like game-day adrenaline, thrumming in his veins, making him feel invincible. With Connor and Ryan at his side, it’s pretty much the same thing. 

They grab a quick bite to eat from the hotel cafe and then they’re on their way up to Dylan’s room, that same energy giving him a swooping feeling in his stomach. 

The elevator ride and the walk down the hallway are a blur because Dylan’s only got eyes for the two men walking with him. 

He fumbles with the key card once, then twice, and is about to drop it before Connor takes it from him with a steady hand. 

It opens easily with a  _ beep-click-swoosh _ and they all shove past the door frame, a little clumsy, a little uncoordinated. 

Dylan closes the door behind them as Connor puts the key card on the dresser and Ryan sets his bag on the ground.

“Hey,” Ryan says, laying back on the bed, half a smile on his face.

Connor laughs, toes off his shoes before leaning against the wall. “Hey yourself."

“What is this, the intro to a bad porno?” Dylan says, rolling his eyes as he kicks his flip flops off. “Because I think everyone’s a little too dressed for that situation.”

It’s silent for a beat, and Dylan feels like he messed up. 

“Uh, I didn’t mean,” he starts, but Connor plops onto the bed next to Ryan, effectively crashing his train of thought. “Maybe I did, come to think of it.” 

Ryan laughs, Connor smiles, and Dylan is so, so happy. 

Dylan lays next to Connor, easy in its similarity to the past three nights they’ve spent together, but looking up and seeing Ryan on the other side?

He’s pretty fuckin’ stoked that this is his life right now. 

“Uh, so,” Connor says, effectively getting the attention turned back to him. He’s got a small smile on his face, blush high on his cheeks, sunset glow bright around his edges, and Dylan thinks he’s beautiful.

“Can I kiss you?” Dylan blurts out and Ryan quirks an eyebrow. 

“Wait, so you didn’t even  _ kiss _ ?” he asks, genuinely surprised. 

The flush on Connor’s cheeks deepens, travels down to his chest, and Dylan  _ wants. _

“Yes,” Connor breathes, and Dylan doesn’t have to be told twice. 

It’s nothing like his first kiss with Ryan, soft and tentative and timid. 

No, Connor kisses like there’s something at stake, like if he doesn’t give it 110%, then there’s no point. It takes Dylan a second to catch up, but when he does, it’s like nothing he’s ever felt before. He sighs into it, brings one hand to cup Connor’s face, swipes his thumb against Connor’s heated cheeks.

They break for air reluctantly, press their foreheads together and Dylan-- he still can’t believe he can have this. 

“Holy shit,” whispers Ryan. “Your colors.” 

Dylan shifts back a little, looks at where he’s pressed alongside Connor. His glow, the whole fucking sunset of his glow, is bleeding onto Dylan’s skin, washing over every point that they’re connected. 

“Connor, can I--” Ryan starts, but he doesn’t get to finish his question before Connor answers it, crashing their lips together. Dylan is suddenly very, very dizzy.

Connor pulls a groan from the back Ryan’s throat, one he knows all too well, and Dylan suddenly needs everyone a lot more naked. He says as much, and Ryan and Connor don’t disappoint, shedding shirts and joggers and boxers until there’s nothing but smooth skin and pale sheets. 

Connor is beautiful, Dylan thinks. He’s flushed down to his chest, a light sheen of sweat in the crook of his neck, the lines of his abs. Dylan wants to  _ touch _ , wants to trail his fingers down to where Connor is hard and leaking, curved up against his stomach, but he doesn’t have the chance to before Ryan is reaching over, past Connor and pulling Dylan in for a searing kiss. 

“ _ Oh, _ ” Connor gasps, breathy and hot against where he has his lips pressed into Dylan’s skin. Dylan wouldn’t mind hearing that sound for the rest of forever. 

“Guys, please,” Connor says, squirming for any kind of contact he can manage. “Dyl. Ryan.  _ Please _ .”

Dylan and Ryan break apart at the sound of their names, twin smirks on bruised lips as they look down at Connor. Ryan ducks down, presses a kiss into Connor’s chest, getting him sufficiently distracted so Dylan can wrap a hand around him. Connor gasps, pushing up into the touch as he grabs his lower lip with his teeth. 

“That’s our boy,” Ryan murmurs, and Dylan swears, has to grab at the base of his dick with his free hand to take off the edge. Connor looks up at him, blown pupils and swollen lips and Dylan wants to commit this image to memory. He wants to know every little thing that takes Connor apart at the seams, wants to learn what makes him shiver.

“Dylan, holy shit.” 

He can do all that later, though.

“I wanna-- can I blow you?” Dylan asks, thumbs over the flushed red head of Connor’s dick. 

“Jesus, Dylan,” Ryan says, taking himself in hand, stroking lazily. 

Connor nods, pushes himself so he’s sitting against the headboard, and pulls Dylan in for a biting kiss that Dylan trails down his jaw, the column of his throat. His mouth is watering by the time he kisses down Connor’s torso, laying between his legs. 

Dylan presses a quick kiss to the head, swiping his tongue along the slit before taking Connor into his mouth, bringing his hand up to meet his lips. He hears Connor groan as he hollows his cheeks, feels the reverberated  _ thump _ of Connor’s head hitting the headboard, then hears slick, soft sounds that can only be kissing. Dylan pulls off, a trail of saliva and precum following, and chances a glance up, where -- sure enough  -- Ryan is nipping at Connor’s lower lip. 

Dylan strokes Connor’s cock a few times, the slide easier now that Dylan’s made a bit of a mess. It’s definitely not his best effort, but Connor doesn’t seem to mind. He takes Connor back into his mouth, focuses on his breathing as he takes a little more. There are tears pricking in the corner of his eyes as he swallows around Connor, who unintentionally bucks his hips. He pulls off quick enough, but still has to cough a couple of times, tears falling as he tries to get his breath back. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Connor pants, brings a hand down to smooth over  the too-short strands of hair at the back of his head. “Are you okay?” 

Dylan smiles despite the tears on his face, presses a kiss to Connor’s hip, then gets back to work.

“He’s fine,” Ryan answers for him, and Dylan’s hums around Connor before swallowing again. 

“ _ Fuck, _ ” Connor groans. “Dylan, I’m--”

Dylan pulls up, focuses on the head as he strokes up to meet his lips. Connor’s hips cant forward, and Dylan doesn’t stop them this time, let’s Connor shallowly fuck his mouth. 

“He’s pretty good at that, huh?” Ryan ask and Connor groans again. Dylan knows exactly where Ryan is pressing desperate kisses, trying to pull Connor closer and closer to the edge. “Taught him everything he knows.” 

“Jesus,” Connor gasps. “Ryan. Dylan,  _ fuck,  _ I’m gonna-- _ ”  _

Dylan hums around Connor in acknowledgment, strokes up once more with a twist of his wrist and then Connor is coming, spilling hot in the back of his throat. Dylan swallows, strokes him through it as he pulls off, the last of Connor’s come landing on his lower lip. He goes to swipe his tongue over it, but before he can, Ryan’s thumb is sliding through it and pushing into Dylan’s mouth. 

“Fucking christ,” Connor breathes, and exhausted smile pulling at his lips as he slumps down, throwing his arm over his face again. 

“You alright there, sweetheart?” Ryan checks, pressing a soft, barely there kiss to Connor’s cheek, color rising at the pet name to where Ryan’s lips touch. 

“Mmm,” he hums. “More than. Jesus, Dylan.” 

Dylan crawls back up by the two of them, suddenly hyper aware of how bad his own need to come is as he allows himself to get pulled in by Connor for a kiss. He’s so hard that even the press of his dick against Connor’s thigh has him hissing, pushing his hips forward for even the slightest bit of friction.

“Wait,” Connor says, and Dylan instantly slides away, Ryan pulls back. 

“Are you okay? Did we--” 

“Can I watch?” says Connor, eyes wide and curious. 

Dylan takes a deep breath, then another, and Ryan swears. 

“If that’s what you want,” Ryan says, and Connor nods almost instantly. 

Connor moves over, allowing Dylan to occupy his former spot in the middle and Ryan is on top of him right away, slotting one leg between Dylan’s, pressing forward and giving him something to rub off on. Dylan’s hips start moving as if it’s second nature, the press and slide of his cock against Ryan’s thigh just on the right side of too much.

He looks over at Connor, sees his hooded eyes and flushed cheeks and has to kiss him, so he does. It’s hot and all-encompassing, a little softer and more languid than that of the desperate kisses earlier. 

“ _ Fuck, _ ” Ryan breathes, pushing his own hips forward, letting Dylan feel the press of his dick hard against his thigh. “Come on, Dyl.”

He doesn’t break away from Connor’s lips to take Ryan into his hand, stroking fast, a little tight, twisting up at the head. Ryan groans, lets his head fall forward to Dylan’s shoulder, pressing a kiss to the skin there. Dylan whines, high in his throat into Connor’s mouth when Ryan  _ finally  _ gets a hand wrapped around his dick. He’s taking his time, though, and Dylan can feel the tears behind his eyes, hot and prickling. 

Dylan pulls away from Connor to beg, to say, “Ryan,  _ please.”  _

But Ryan just hums against Dylan’s shoulder, continues with the slow, steady pace he’s started; a contrast to how quickly Dylan’s hand is stripping his cock, a testament to his self control. 

“Gonna show Connor how good you can be?” Ryan says, pitched low, but still loud enough for both of them to hear him. Dylan’s face burns, with tears or his usual flush, he doesn’t know. He squeezes his eyes shut, lets the tears spill over, and Ryan picks up the pace.

“Yes, I promise,” Dylan says in a rush. “Please please  _ please.”  _

It’s dirty pool, the begging, coupled with how he’s thumbing at the slit of Ryan’s cock, pressing in ever so slightly. Ryan hisses, pushes forward into Dylan’s hand, bites at his shoulder. Dylan’s teasing backfires, though, because the press of Ryan’s teeth is what pushes him over the edge as he comes with a shout, spilling hot and sticky onto his own stomach, Ryan’s thigh. 

“Connor, come  _ here,”  _ Ryan all but growls, and Connor doesn’t need to be told twice, leaning over Dylan and crashing his lips to Ryan’s. Dylan is still coming down when he feels Connor’s hand wrap around his own where it’s still lazily stroking at Ryan’s cock, but Connor picks the pace back up, jacking Ryan off with barely any finesse.

Ryan comes like that, biting kisses into Connor’s lower lip, hot and sticky on Dylan’s stomach before collapsing at his side. 

They lay there for what feels like hours, lazy fingertips tracing over smooth skin, come drying tacky without a care in the world.

When the afterglow fades, Dylan can’t help but think that it’s a little gross, a little sticky, but still a little perfect.

 

//

 

In the morning, they take a much-needed -- and possibly slightly counterproductive -- shower before Connor has to head to his own room to get ready. Dylan and Ryan are still in their towels when they kiss Connor before he heads to his own room. 

Before Dylan can even think about the fact that it’s his Draft day, he’s sitting in the stands of the BB&T center, waving across the floor at Connor, and hearing Bettman get booed. 

Dylan’s not nervous, he doesn’t think. He’s spent so much time worrying about statistics and draft rankings and other things leading up to this day that he just can’t find the energy to be nervous now. 

Bettman leaves the stage, and Edmonton takes it. 

Here goes nothing.

Chiarelli is thanking the Panthers for their hospitality when Ryan nudges him with his knee, offers him a fist and says, “That’s our boy.” 

Dylan smiles, soft and bright as he bumps it, their blockers making the slightest  _ click. _

“The Edmonton Oilers would like to select with their first pick, from the Erie Otters…”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> to the village that this damn fic took, you all hold such a special place in my heart. thank you for letting me corrupt you and chatfic this to you until you were all glowing lime-green. 
> 
> there is a sequel in the works, but no promises on when. 
> 
> dylan and ryan's gift were very much inspired by blamefincham and thistidalwave's Gifted Camp!verse
> 
> If you wanna see how this monster came to be, here's a [read with me version](https://docs.google.com/document/d/16EwvilegPhVjyS361WAq05qq3bgB0mswXuM441u5JCo/edit?usp=sharing) of the fic!!


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